It Grows
by artwolf1995
Summary: REPOST - SEE AUTHOR'S NOTES INSIDE FOR DETAILS
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Okay so I received a flood of emails asking me to repost this story after it was taken down. I personally don't really like the dynamic or characterization I did for either H or P here, which is part of the reason why I never wanted to post it. However, my account was hacked, and it seems that the hacker liked it well enough (my bet is that it's because it's a good deal smuttier than my other story). Still, I guess some of you did enjoy it quite a bit, based upon my inbox's inundation of emails (or you like the smut, which is also fine). So I'm reposting it for those of you who liked it. I doubt I will ever finish it, though; unless some wellspring of inspiration erupts within me, you're looking at an uncompleted fic that's going to stay uncompleted. But, still - enjoy it, if you want.

Also, I would just like to make clear that the H and P in this story are completely different people from the H and P in "Solace": they look different, they act different: they are different. This is a separate continuity (again, one that will likely never be finished). So keep that in mind as you're reading - these are different characters.

Cheers!

-Artwolf

* * *

The story goes that he took her. This is true, but an important detail is often left out: the marriage was arranged, first by the Fates, and then by Zeus. There was no way around it. He took her in the tradition of the time and the culture.

The wedding was only a formality, just like everything else. Only once did she look up at his black, unreadable eyes. She could feel his gaze; she wanted nothing more than to curl up and hide herself from him. When he kissed her – ever chaste – she felt her whole body grow cold.

The bedding was even worse. As part of the ceremony they were both thrown into his bedchamber, clad only in their small clothes. He did not look at her as she walked to his massive divan. Her hands were wrapped around her stomach, her steps unsteady. She heard the jeers of the other gods and goddesses outside the bedchamber and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. She lied down and looked up at the dark, cavernous ceiling of the room. Her hands shook; she was incredibly afraid. As soon as she felt his weight on the bed, her strength broke and she began to weep. She felt his cold fingers touch her cheek and nearly struck him out of reflex. How she managed to stop herself, she did not know. His expression was unreadable – as always – but his deep voice came out surprisingly soft and gentle.

"I will not harm you," he said. His touch made her flinch; his breath against her neck made her feel lightheaded. She did not answer him.

When he entered her, she felt incredible pain. He took her slowly, but the agony did not stop. Her fingers clawed at his back as he pushed in and withdrew. She could not say how long it went on like that; all she knew was that when he shuddered and withdrew himself from her, she felt his lips on her forehead and heard a whispered apology before he turned his scarred back to her. She felt his warm essence dripping between her legs. Consummation was only a formality.

They have been married a year now. He has not touched her since.

She sits next to him on a great onyx throne, carved with flowers and embellished with precious minerals. It is cold, like her husband. She watches him as he passes judgment, stoic and unflinching. He does not look at her. He is not cruel, but he is unyielding. There is no mercy; there is only justice. He frightens her.

Every night, she steels herself as she waits in his – _their_ – bedchamber and every night, he undresses without looking at her and lies on the bed with his back facing her. She is relieved for the first few months, but his disinterest begins to make her question her beauty.

When she wakes at night, a part of her wants him to be holding her. She turns and is greeted with the sight of his back, unyielding like the rest of him. As she watches him sleep and sees the gnarled ridges that crisscross over his shoulders and along his spine, she has the insane, incredible urge to reach out and touch him. She does not.

When she leaves to the world above, all he offers her in goodbye is a stiff nod. She is not sure why that makes her want to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

"He will not touch me," she says. She is speaking to Aphrodite, who is perfected beauty. She feels more intimidated by her than her own husband.

"Do you want him to?"

The question is difficult to answer. He frightens her. Their first night together was painful. She thinks of the solid, unbreakable wall of his back and feels anger stir within her.

"I want to feel desired," she replies. _Loved, _she thinks, but quickly pushes the thought away. She does not love him; she knows that for sure. She does not need his love; she needs his acknowledgment. She is tired of being ignored. Aphrodite smiles at her, and, in the months before she must descend to the dark kingdom of her husband, Persephone learns the arts of a skillful lover.

When she returns, he greets her will a small kiss on the forehead. Her dress is cut in a way that accentuates all of her assets. She knows that she looks beautiful – that she _is_ beautiful. She feels a pang of disappointment and anger when he does not comment.

"Welcome," he says. His voice is hard and edged and not at all like the way he sounded on their wedding night. He turns from her, his back straight and his posture stiff, and he walks with purpose to the throne room. They eat dinner in silence. She becomes angry, leaving without dismissing herself and heading to their bedchamber.

"I will not be ignored," she hisses through gritted teeth as she tears off her beautifully woven dress. She lies on their bed completely nude. When he walks in, she sees his brows furrow in the candlelight. He turns his back towards her and begins to undress himself. With this final insult, she finds her courage.

"Do I disgust you, my king?" Her question makes him pause.

" . . . No," he says. His voice is hard. He turns and she can see his naked chest, etched with scars from old wars. She wants to run her hands over them; taste each line with her tongue. She wants to possess him.

"Then tell me, my king, why you cannot bare to look at me, even as I present myself to you?"

"You do not disgust me," is all he says in reply. It is not an answer to her question, and that makes her angrier. He lies in their bed with his back towards her and she wants to scream. Instead, she makes her anger known through her question.

"Do you not like women, my king?" She knows many of the gods have preferences for men. She thinks that she would not be as upset with him if this was the case. But, she knows that he is not one of those gods. He sits up and faces her. She can feel the anger pulsing off of him. It excites her.

"I like women fine," he seethes. She smiles. He is not ignoring her.

"Then tell me, my king, why you do not touch me," she says, tracing her fingers over the pink nipples of her full breasts. She lets a sigh escape her mouth, closing her eyes as her hands trail lower and lower down her abdomen. When she slips a finger inside of herself, she lets him see the pleasure on her face. She opens her eyes and watches him. She pulls her hand out from herself and licks her own juices off her finger, keeping her eyes on him as she does so. His nostrils flare and his black eyes have somehow grown darker. Time has slowed. The two stare at each other.

Finally, he says, "I have no interest in forcing a woman to lie with me." She bursts out laughing. For once, he finally seems surprised. She sits up on her knees and moves close to him, so that their noses are almost touching.

"You won't be forcing me," she says. She hopes he can smell the scent of her core on her breath. She hears him swallow. The sound is loud. Nervous, even. She grins. She reaches between them, touching him through his small clothes. She languidly stokes him and feels her heart beat faster when his breath catches and he gasps for her.

For his part, he is confused. He has wanted her since the day he saw her, but under the circumstances he was too ashamed to let her know. On their wedding night, he had wanted her to be with him willingly. Everything was forced, and he could not touch her or look at her without seeing pain and disgust in her eyes. He chose to distance himself from her, though that could not keep his body's desire for her at bay. Every night, he would sleep with his back towards her; every night he would keep his arousal hidden from her. She was beautiful, but she was not his. Not in the way he wanted her to be.

Now he feels her soft hand pulling him out of his small clothes; feels her thumb tracing the tip of his arousal. He reaches his hands up to her face and looks her in the eyes. In them he sees the green, living forests of the world above. He wants to kiss her, but soon her mouth is at his throat, kissing and biting him there, and he knows now that she is in complete control. He also knows that he is being too stiff; that he should move, touch her, but he is paralyzed by her smell and the feel of her lips of his chest. Her hands are roving over his stomach, making the muscles there clench. She says something – no, laughs it, and before he has the presence of mind to ask her what she is laughing about, her mouth is on him and his eyes roll back. Her tongue slides up and down the sides of his length and her hands cradle and cup him. Someone is breathing loudly. (He chooses to ignore the fact that it is him.) She releases him from her mouth and looks up at him, a coy smile playing on her lips. He tries to say something, but the sound is only a groan. Her grin grows wider as her grip on him grows tighter. She dips her head again, swirling her tongue on the tip of his length and pumping her fist along the shaft. The sounds of her sucking, her moaning – he feels completely out of control.

He tells her to stop and he is surprised when she listens. She sits up, and he reaches his hand out to touch her hair. He feels something strange in his chest when she does not pull away. He traces his fingers down from her smooth jawline to her breasts. She is . . . beautiful. He tells her, and when he looks into her eyes, he sees something in them that he has never seen before.

He kisses her, and it is not chaste. She straddles his hips as she strokes and twists her hand on him, and soon he can feel her hot, wet cunt on him. He presses the head of his cock against her, his hips rising slightly to push inside, and she moans low.

Without warning, she slams her hips down, and he fills her completely, the sensation, the pressure of it all, both bizarre and overwhelming. His hands are tight on her hips and he feels lost within her. Her soft breasts are against his hard chest, and each time she moves he feels that he is losing a piece of himself to her.

Her movements are circular; her teeth are deliciously sharp against his throat. She can taste his sweat; feel the rapidity of his pulse against her tongue. His body is hard underneath her and inside her. She loves the feel of him; she loves the feeling of possessing him. She has never been so –

" . . .Wet," he groans. She is so wet, so slick on him. Her movements are so frantic on him; her body has intoxicated him so much that he can scarcely think. All the same, he realizes that she is using him. Pain mixes with pleasure as she continues to ride him, moving away from his neck so he can get a view of her perfect breasts bouncing. Her olive skin is flushed; her auburn hair is tossed in mesmerizing tresses over her smooth shoulders. She grabs his hand, placing the pad of his thumb on the special nub of flesh between her legs that makes her sigh.

"Rub it," she commands, breathless. He obliges, pressing hard on the nub as she contracts around him. She gasps. "Gently." She squeezes her inner walls around him again and he groans, nodding in assent. As she moves on him, her face beautiful in the throes of passion, he feels anger rise in his chest, even as his pleasure peaks. He is nothing to her, he realizes. Nothing but a cock to fuck her. He hears her curse, and for an insane moment, he thinks that he hears her say his name. His climax burns through him; his insides become alight with pleasure. Stars take over his vision and his breathing is erratic. When she slips off of him, he winces.

His entire body feels heavy, and for the first time since being freed from the depths of his father's belly, he falls asleep on his back. (He does not know that she lays her head on his chest, or that she says, "thank you.")


	3. Chapter 3

When she wakes, she finds that she is alone in the bed. As her eyes adjust to the light in the room, she realizes that she is not in their shared bedchamber, but in her old guestroom. She feels panic begin to well up inside her, but she suppresses it. He is hers; she has ensnared him. There is nothing he can do to her that she cannot make him undo. She rises, gets dressed, and heads to the throne room. Her heart skips a beat when she finds that he is not there.

As she walks towards the thrones, she is intercepted by a servant.

"My lady," the ghostly servant says, "the king has asked that you take on the responsibility of judging today." Odd, she thinks.

"Where is he?"

"I am afraid do not know, my lady. The king said that he was ill and he would be gone most of the day. A king goes where he chooses, and servants are not permitted to ask where. I trust you understand, my lady." Persephone nods.

"You are dismissed," she says. The servant bows low, taking his leave.

She sits on her throne and begins to judge, all the while panic brews silently and hotly in her belly.

* * *

He sits on the edge of Elysium, disgust and pain twisting in deadly coils within his heart. What a horrible marriage this is! To be used by his wife as nothing more than a tool for her pleasure.

"Isn't that what wives usually are to their husbands?" he whispers to himself. Bile rises in his throat, fists clench. The whole situation is horrible, whether it be a wife or a husband, he thinks. Never has he felt such physical pleasure as to be almost in agony from the overwhelming sensation of it, and yet never has he felt so deeply empty inside.

"This will not do," he says, his jaw tight. The living, green grass of Elysium begins to wither at his feet, turning black. The ground beneath him rumbles. The underworld shudders with the anger of its king.

* * *

She hears his quick steps as he returns to the throne room, feels her pulse quicken when she sees his silver crown. He's only ever worn it once, at their wedding. Something is very, very wrong. He sits in his onyx, unyielding throne, his back ramrod against it. She can feel the anger pulsing off of him.

I am not afraid, she tells herself. He is mine.

Her heart rate does not slow down.

With a flick of his wrists, he makes it so they are the only two beings in the throne room.

They sit like that for a long while; the silence is thick, heavy, and very awkward. Finally, he lets out a strained breath, says, "Just what am I to you?"

She blinks, confused. "I'm sorry, but, what, my king –"

"I have a name, _my lady_."

He turns his head to face her. She can see the anger in his eyes; hear it in his voice. She needs to stay in control.

"Hades," she clarifies. She feels odd using his name. He has many, after all. Still, saying his name seems to please him, if only a little.

"Good," he says, offering a very faint hint of what she is sure is an insincere smile. "Now answer my question: what am I to you?"

"You . . . you are my king," she says. He nods, keeping his disgust and pain at bay. He is slipping out of my grasp, she thinks. She swiftly jumps from her throne onto his lap, placing her legs on both sides of his hips. Her quick motion startles him, and she is able to use his momentary stiffness to her advantage, pressing her soft body against him. She curls her fingers through his thick hair – oh, how she loves his hair – and kisses his stubbled cheek.

"Why are you so upset?" she asks, breathing against his ear. That gets her a shudder. She grins. She is a lioness, pinning her prey. Her delicious, delicious prey. She begins to grind on him, against his hardening arousal and she hears him murmur something.

"Hmmm?" she asks. She shrieks when he pulls her head back by yanking roughly on her hair. He's pulled her so far back that he is leaning over her. The tears in her eyes make her vision blurry.

"I do not like being used," he says, and his voice is dark; sinister, even. It excites her, even as it scares her.

"Is this how you repay your wife after she milks your cock for all it's worth?" Her prey may bite back, but she is still a lioness. He pulls on her hair harder, and she makes a sound in between pleasure and pain.

"Oh yes, _Hades_, like _that_," she laughs.

"You're just a whore, aren't you?" he snarls. Something in her snaps when he says that, and her hand comes down to slap him on the same cheek that only just a few minutes ago she had kissed. He lets her go, only for her to knee him in the groin, _hard_. Pain shoots up through his abdomen, and it takes all his willpower to keep from vomiting all over himself. As he doubles over, she whispers into his ear, "I hate you."

When he hears the last footsteps of her leaving the throne room, he says to himself, "I know."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

They have not spoken for weeks, and he has not slept in his own bed since that night. When they are forced to sit next to each other on their thrones, he keeps himself on edge and alert. Dinner takes place in heavy silence while he eats slowly and she eats rapidly. It is an endless, monotonous cycle. Loveless.

She is everywhere, hating him; and he is everywhere, hating her for hating him. Both are trapped in a cage that is not gilded.

When he grows weary, he heads into his private study to contemplate. It is the only thing that brings him joy. Now he sits there at his desk, thinking of the cosmos and his nature within it. Everything has a place and everything is in its place, be it good or bad, and he sighs in pleasure as the beauty of it all flashes before his eyes. He feels lighter. He had thought that objective feature of his life gone – lost, when he married his wife. He seems to have found it again.

"I will forgive her," he says to himself. "And I will apologize." As he begins to fall asleep, the heaviness in heart lifts.

* * *

He is a mystery to her. They have lain together twice; she has taken him into her mouth and inside her body, and yet he is just as far away and foreign to her as he was on the day she first met him. He is a mystery to her, and her anger keeps her from speaking to him, so she watches; she learns. He is rigid and tense when she observes him, so she does her best to keep her inspection hidden. In the rare times she is able to glimpse him without his notice, she catches sight of something she wants nothing more but to see again.

She tells herself that she first saw it when he addressed a servant, voice soft, dark eyes understanding. (She has since noted that his eyes are not black, but rather a deep blue.) In truth, she knows that she first saw it on the night of their wedding, when he took her slowly and touched her quietly.

The more she observes him, the more she sees the strange, mystical quality that has totally enraptured her.

She is angry with him still – unbelievably so – but he fascinates her. He is a puzzle: equal parts intriguing and frustrating. She is determined to solve him.

* * *

The next evening at dinner, she watches him. She knows that he is aware of her observing him, can see it in the way he moves. Tense, alert.

She is tired of living this way. It is time to break the silence.

"My king," she says, and then, "Hades, I mean. I . . ." she pauses, unsure of what to say. He is looking at her, and though she once thought him expressionless and morose, she now sees a subtle curiosity in his face.

"You what, Persephone?" It is a simple question, softly said. He confuses her, this puzzle. When she was engaged, her mother would furiously tell her stories about her husband-to-be. 'Men only use women for pleasure,' her mother would say. 'And the man you're about to marry is no different.' Demeter had fought to keep her; had fought to save her from a marriage bounded by eternity to a man she had never met before. Yet, even with all her tantrums and all her threats, Zeus' law reigned supreme. The arrangements were set, and the king of the world below took her from her home in keeping with custom. That same night, the two were married as strangers. And here we are, she thinks, strangers still.

She lets out a deep sigh.

"I wanted to apologize. For slapping you. And then . . ." she trails off when she sees him wince. Aphrodite had told her that if she ever felt like she was in danger, she was to kick him there. The triumph and strength she felt at that moment has since turned into shame and regret. Pushing through her embarrassment, she finally says, "I'm sorry for all of it."

He nods slowly, rigidly.

"You are forgiven." His words are gentle.

He watches her face closely. This is the first time she has been genuine since the night of the wedding. At the time she had been genuinely afraid of him; now she is genuinely sincere in her apology. He nods at her, showing her that he is pleased. (Because smiling is not something he does, unless in jest or anger.) "I would like to apologize for my behavior as well. A husband should never do or say things like that to his wife, let alone a king to his queen." He wishes that he was better at speaking, but that is neither his talent nor his place.

Persephone's breath hitches when she sees the warm light from the fireplace catch on his face. His black hair shines; his jaw looks cut from stone. She feels desire grow low in her belly, and the thought of him taking her right now, on the table or against the wall, sends delicious shivers running down her spine. Learning from Aphrodite woke something in her, and even though they are strangers, he must fill her need.

Her hands move up to the pins on her clothes and only pause when she hears a strained, "_Stop!_" followed by, "What are you doing?"

"I want to lie with you, my king," she says, making her voice sound as heavy and as sultry as possible.

"My name," he whispers.

"Hades," she corrects. She continues to disrobe, and this time he says nothing. "I want you to take me here right now, hard and fast and strong, befitting of a king. I want you to fuck me, Hades." She has said all the words Aphrodite taught her; she has said them in the right way. She is pleased with herself when she sees the flabbergasted look of his countenance.

Because of this, it is all the more shocking when he says, "No." He stands, albeit too quickly and too roughly. "Excuse me, Persephone. I am going to retire for the night."

Tears flow down her cheeks as he walks past her while shame and anger make a dangerous concoction in her stomach.

"Why don't you want me?" she whispers, and when he stops at the door, she screams, "WHY DON'T YOU WANT ME? WHY DON'T YOU DESIRE ME?"

His shoulders sag as if an incredible weight has been pressed on top of him. He sighs, breathing heavily and laboriously.

"I do want you, Persephone." He looks up into her eyes, red and soaking wet with tears.

"Then why don't you want to lie with me? Why, even as I offer myself to you, do you deny me? Am I hideous? You said once that you did not want to force me – but I am offering to pleasure you! I _want_ to pleasure you! Why won't you let me? Am I not beautiful enough for you, is that it? Are you fucking some nymph on the side? Answer me, you – you –you – you _horrible, infuriating man_!"

He steps close to her now, dark and intimidating. For each step he takes towards her, she takes a step back, until the backs of her thighs hit the table. He has trapped her, like she once trapped him. Yet, for all his darkness, he lightly touches her chin with his fingertips as he gently raises her head to look upwards.

"You are beautiful – truthfully, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And as you can see," he takes her hand to feel his full arousal through his clothes, "I desire you."

"Then why-"

His thumb lightly presses against her lips to silence her.

"Because, while this sort of thing," he groans, moving his hips against the palm of her hand, "feels physically good, for both me and you, there needs to be something more."

He kisses the top of her head. "I will see you in the morning. Sleep well."

And with that, he leaves her, more lonely and confused than she ever thought possible.


End file.
